


Topography

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Challenge: Porn Battle III, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-10
Updated: 2007-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:06:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's a map," Rodney says, eyes wide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Topography

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle III.

"It's a map," Rodney says, eyes wide. He spent hours watching them apply it, broad smudges of colour layered on with the flat of their fingertips, fine lines and details built up with delicate brushes, but until now, he hadn't understood just what it meant. He reaches out to touch, unthinking, before pulling his hand away.

"It's okay," John says, shrugging, movement rippling through the colours on his back, blue and white, green and grey, "You can touch. It's not like it's—"

"It's beautiful," Rodney says, reverent, and now he does touch, tentatively, the warm skin of John's shoulder. There is a meaning to it for the Riccari, Rodney knows, some reason which makes them offer this ritual to every stranger who visits their small, mountainous world, a meaning made plain in the slurring, humming Ancient spoken by the priestesses when they worked on John's skin.

What Rodney doesn't know is what meaning it has for John, why he agreed to do this. Why he chose _this_.

Rodney steps around behind him to see it more fully. Every inch of John's skin from the nape of his neck to the curve of his lower back is covered, coloured: the sharp line of a shoulder blade, shaded to become a mountain ridge; a wide wash of blue lower down, deep as an ocean; the puckered line of a scar, magnified and made beautiful, an island chain beneath chalky paint.

"Is this?" Rodney says, touching one small point, right at the centre of John's back.

"Yes," John says hoarsely.

_Oh_, Rodney thinks, _It is. Atlantis. It's a map of home._

He places on hand on John's back, palm flat—right over the tiny, painted city, detailed as an atlas in miniature—and feels John shudder. Rodney steps closer, until he can feel the heat coming from John's skin, radiating through colour and texture, and says "Can I?"

"Yeah," John, "yes," and his head drops forward, letting Rodney look, letting him see.

"Oh," Rodney says, and lets his hands move, colour blurring under his touch so that home becomes sea becomes earth becomes sky, the pain-staking work of hours coming apart beneath his touch and John is shuddering, moving. Rodney reaches up, lets his hand move around John's neck to cup his jaw, turn John around so that he can kiss him, tell him, know him. His hand leaves a streak of blue on John's face, stark against pale skin and dark stubble, and John's mouth is hot against his.

It could be slow, Rodney thinks, should be slow, when they have all night together for once, all night for him to move his mouth against John's, hot and wet, to suck John and move against him, achingly sweet. It's anything but; it's hard and fast, and even as John is licking his way into Rodney's mouth, he's pulling open Rodney's clothing with urgent fingers, stripping away layers until it's just skin against skin. Hands move over skin, leaving fingerprints of bright, chalky colour—along Rodney's neck, the jut of John's hipbone, the curve of Rodney's ass.

"Now," John says, "Rodney, _now_, want," looping one hand around Rodney's neck and pulling him to the floor with him. Rodney goes willingly, though the floor is hard and unforgiving wood, and he knows, in the morning—but now, now, John is on all fours in front of him, and if his words are a command, all Rodney can see in the arch of his spine and the spread of his legs is a plea.

"John," he says as he moves to kneel behind him, "John," as he holds him open, works him slick with fingers and tongue, leaving handprints of charcoal and blue against the inside of John's thighs as he slips inside, quicker than he should and slower than he wants to. John urges him on, _faster_ and _harder_ and _jesus, Rodney, fuck me_, scrabbling at the floor, finding no purchase, palms slick with sweat, and still he wants more. Rodney moves faster, hips moving urgently, colour smeared between them now by touch and sweat, pressure; by Rodney fucking into John harder and harder, pressing kisses and bitemarks into the nape of John's neck, loving the salt taste of sweat and the chalk of the colour on his tongue.

"Harder," John says, and Rodney moves faster, until his head snaps back and he's coming and coming, John gasping beneath him, and the colours behind his eyelids are blue and green and grey, like John, like home.


End file.
